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Thorndyke-Smith, who was very pleasing every way, but in nothing more than in her praises of the Royal Street coterie. Next morning, in a hired car, she had Castanado and Mme. Dubroca, Beloiseau and Mme. Alexandre, not merely show but, as the ironworker said, pinching forefinger and thumb together in the air, "elucidate" to her, for hours, the vieux carré. The day's latter half brought Mlles.
"See that some of them don't slip away to the Creux or Dixcart, while we're busy with the others here, Carré," he said, as I tied up his head with his own kerchief, and then dragged him down into a little hollow where no shots could reach him. There was much cursing and shouting down below, and a satisfactory amount of groaning also, and our men fired and loaded without stopping and said no word.
"But, Monsieur Carré," cried the small girl remonstratively, "it would never have come in if Phil had not gone for it. It would have got smashed in the Gouliot or gone right past and been lost. And, besides, I do so want it." "All the same, little one, the Seigneur's rights must be respected. You'd better go and tell him about it and ask him "
He spoke it with conviction. "Oh 'marry'? call it marry if you like. That's what poor mother threatens me with she lives in dread of it." "To this hour," he mentioned, "I haven't managed to make out what your mother wants. She has so many ideas, as Madame Carré said." "She wants me to be some sort of tremendous creature all her ideas are reducible to that.
In the Louvre where the Salon Carré is little changed Manet's Olympe, with her every-day seductiveness, resolves the phantasies of Moreau into thin air. Here is reality for you, familiar as it may be. It is wonderful how long it took French critics to discover that Manet was un peintre de race. He is very French in the French gallery where he now hangs.
Chester lingered in it. "That fine large house and garden across the way," she said, "are they a Creole type?" "Yes, bez' kind for in the city. They got very few like that in the vieux carré, but up yonder in that beautiful garden diztric' of the nouveau quartier are many, where we'll perchanze go to live some day pritty soon.
Accordingly, I hear him beginning: "Oh, my poor knee!... They don't know it hurts!" One morning when he was shouting this at the top of his voice, I asked him gravely: "Why do you make the same complaints as Carre?" Marie is only a peasant, but he showed me a face that was really offended: "It's not true. I don't say the same things."
But Carre is ill, terribly ill. That valiant soul of his seems destined to be left alone, for all else is failing. He had one sound leg. Now it is stiff and swollen. He had healthy, vigorous arms. Now one of them is covered with abscesses. The joy of breathing no longer exists for Carre, for his cough shakes him savagely in his bed. The back, by means of which we rest, has also betrayed him.
And then, in a ship's bunk at the far end of the room, I saw a face lifted up and scowling at me. It was the face of a young man, and but for the black scowl on it, and a white cloth tied round above the scowl, it might have been good-looking, for all the Le Marchants were that. "I'm Phil Carré," I faltered. "I've come to look for Carette."
Carré gripped the small boy's two hands in his big brown one, and the youngster with a shout threw back his body and planted his feet on his grandfather's leg, and walked up him until the strong right arm encircled him and he was seated triumphantly in the crook of it. Whatever the old man might have against his son-in-law there was no doubt as to his feeling for the boy.
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